


Him

by lesbianettes



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Death, Hurt/No Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Violence, fatal attraction type story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianettes/pseuds/lesbianettes
Summary: Crockett loves Ethan from the moment he sees him, and he's going to have him. Whatever it takes.Updates Wednesdays, Saturdays
Relationships: Ethan Choi/Connor Rhodes, Ethan Choi/Crockett Marcel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

The instant Crockett first lays eyes on him, he knows he’s the one.

His voice has this command to it, rich and deep, a perfect compliment to the way his muscles shift every time he moves and his military posture. It’s just the physical attraction, initially, along with a bone deep sense that as soon as Crockett gets to know him, he’ll love him more than anything in the world. More than the buttery taste of wine and coke, more than the feeling of soft rain soaking through his shirt, more than the sun rising slowly over the crisp skyline. He can almost taste how much he wants him.

It’s the beginning of a long shift for Crockett; fourteen hours of surgeries and consults and calming scared patients who often grab his hand and beg him to make promises it’ll be okay. He always does. Crockett fixes things, fixes people. He takes care of them. And this will be no different, he decides as he watches dark scrubs fall on such a well-sculpted form.

“Who’s he?” he asks Noah, leaning heavy on the counter and watching close. “Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him yet.”

“That’s Dr. Choi. He’s kind of a hardass, but he does right by his patients.”

Doctor Choi, Crockett thinks, and stowes the name tight against his heart to fawn over when he has the blessing of laying in bed tonight and imagining what those hands would feel like on his body. They look strong and sure, capable, like they’ve done everything a thousand times and Dr. Choi is endlessly confident in their abilities. As he should be.

Crockett doesn’t approach him at first; he doesn’t want to do it until he knows it’s the right time, and he has a script planned out for what to say, and he’s had time to make sure it’s obvious how much he has to give. He’s always considered himself a giver, to be quite honest. He loves to take care of people. Cook for them, bathe them, hold them through the night. Wife him up, as his sister used to say when he would cook for the family and set steaming dishes at each place setting.

He should cook for Dr. Choi as an introduction, he decides. Something sweet, not savory, and easy to snack on when the days go long and it’s easy to forget to take care of oneself. Crockett could take care of him. He’d do a damn good job of it, too. Maybe his beignets? He doesn’t make them often enough. But then again, those are endlessly messy, and a hospital environment is one that really should be kept clean. Back to the drawing board. He needs to find the perfect treat, even if it kills him. And he certainly can’t ask anyone for advice. Too often, he’s had those he loves swept under him by someone who couldn’t stand to lose out to the little southern surgeon with a big heart and so much- perhaps too much- love to give.

That night he goes straight to the store for ingredients. He doesn’t bake enough. After a long time staring down the ten different brands of chocolate chips, he settles on making cookies. They’re a little generic, he must admit, but they’re easy and safe, and he’s willing to bet that Dr. Choi will like them. This is perfect, he just knows, and Dr. Choi probably won’t mind how cliche it is.

He tells himself that as he carefully makes the dough, measuring out the perfect amount of chocolate chips to make sure that each cookie is full but not overwhelmed. This is a science, in a way his usual cooking is more of an art. But he’s still amazing at it. And as his house fills with the scent of cookies baking, warm in the oven and flooding the space, he’s more excited than he thinks he’s been since he first dragged himself to Chicago and took the job at Med. Perhaps the day shift has its perks.

All in all, he makes three dozen, just to make sure there’s more than enough to bring Dr.Choi extras for a few days and gain his affection. Besides, he deserves a sweet treat himself, anyways. And maybe he’ll give one to Noah, ever the eager learner and sweet personality who makes Crockett feel just a bit more at home despite being brand new to the day shift.

The tin he brings to work in the morning is large, but they’re for a good cause. For Dr. Choi. He stowes them in his locker for safe keeping for the first few hours, waiting for him to come on shift, excited for the way his face will bloom in happiness when he tries the cookies. It’ll be perfect. 

Except when Dr. Choi comes in, he’s not alone. He’s holding hands with a man just a couple inches shorter, with bright blue eyes and a blinding smile and the most adoring look on his face. Crockett’s blood runs cold.

“Doctor Choi,” he says anyway, approaching with the tin of cookies. “You look like a man who could use a snack.”

“You can call me Ethan,” the doctor replies, and takes one. Immediately his face washes with pleasure, so expressive despite the fact that this is just one little treat given to him. “This is my boyfriend, Connor.”

“Crockett Marcel.”

He shakes Connor’s hand, cataloguing everything about him. He slouches a little. His handshake is firm but his palms soft. He seems a little soft around the edges in general; not someone who can take care of Ethan, not like Crockett can. He isn’t worthy, and yet he walks in holding his hand and looking like he’s owed the attention of someone so otherworldly. It makes Crockett angry. Ethan is his. He’d take care of him. He’d love him like he deserves. He’d give Ethan everything, and it’s an insult to them both that Connor dares to think he’s good enough.

It’s this exact moment that Crockett knows he can’t let this continue. He can’t knowingly leave Ethan with someone who isn’t right for him. That’s cruel. Whatever it takes, Crockett will show Ethan what love is supposed to be like. It consumes you, and it cares for you, and it adores you. Love is not Connor’s chapped lips and restless rocking back and forth on his heels. 

Crockett doesn’t have a plan right away; certainly nothing complex enough to get Ethan to fully understand how much Crockett loves him and how good he would be for him, but he knows what has to happen first.

He’s going to have to get rid of Connor.


	2. Chapter 2

Crockett needs to know what he’s getting into, so like any good doctor, he gets a history. On Connor, and on Ethan, so that he knows exactly how to approach this. Any little detail could be important. So he buries himself in the internet, in books, in files that are confidential but easy to access when he’s a doctor. 

Most of what he finds on Ethan doesn’t surprise him. Military background, through which he got his degree. Seeing someone to help him cope with his PTSD- Connor must not be doing enough- on a semi-weekly basis. Conservative with his treatment style. Serious but smiley when he’s around someone he loves.

Connor, on the other hand, is full of surprises. The son of a millionaire. The man who had Crockett’s job first, although he quit after his father died. No job since. Severely allergic to cinnamon and mildly allergic to bees. Brief stint in a psych ward, standing prescription of antidepressants. Notes that he’s tried to take his own life.

It’ll make getting rid of him easier, but also hurts him that this is the person that Ethan has chosen to spend time on. Someone so weak and useless. Crockett would be better for him, it’s obvious, and right now, Connor is the biggest obstacle in his way. Once he’s out of the picture, Ethan will realize that he’s perfect for him.

The question becomes how. His first thought is to show Ethan what it feels like to be loved by someone capable of loving him like he deserves, not someone who’s near a breaking point at any given moment. Crockett just needs to spend time with him, and he’ll realize on his own what he’s missing, what he needs. He’ll invite him to drinks at a bar different from the ED’s usual hangout, just the two of them, under the excuse of professionality before making it clear what Ethan could have. Who he could have. It’s simple. By the end of the night, he’ll know what it feels like to kiss the most stunning man he has ever laid his eyes on.

He invites Ethan with ease, although his hands shake in his pockets at the prospect of going out with him. He has to admit, it’s hard. He’s more nervous than he was in medical school come exam season. Ethan’s more important, and the stakes are much higher. 

And when Ethan says no, says he has plans with Connor? It burns. A thousand degree flame ignites in his chest, scalding him and filling him with a rage so deep that it reaches to his very soul. Ethan can’t say no to him. Crockett is everything he will ever need, everything he will ever want, and he denies him because of Connor? It’s unacceptable.

All the same, however, he forces his face to remain neutral and nods. “Another time, then.”

He will ask again, and he will be successful. It’ll take a little time, but he just knows that it will be worth it. But now that he’s certain Connor is in the way, he needs to get rid of him. He’s draining Ethan’s time and energy, abusing the love that so clearly rests within him. Connor doesn’t deserve him. So Crockett needs to get rid of him, and the first thing he can think of, the easiest, is to take advantage of his allergies. Cinnamon is an innocuous ingredient, easy to add to something Ethan would share with his boyfriend without a second thought, and then he’ll be out of the picture. Maybe not dead, but suddenly enough work for Ethan to realize that he isn’t worth it. 

Crockett pauses.

Does he want Connor to die?

The thought makes him uncharacteristically squeamish. His job has always been to save lives. He swore an oath to do no harm. He’s a fucking doctor, a surgeon, and the wave of outright violent thoughts is almost distressing. Were the circumstances any different, he would go to a shrink, maybe even commit himself out of fear he’d do something, but he has this voice in the back of his head, telling him that this is different. It’s different because it’s about Ethan, who even now is smiling across the ED, phone to his ear, undoubtedly speaking to Connor. 

And an anger rages through him, so intense that he has to step back and take a deep breath, forcing him to realize that there’s no turning back. He wants Ethan, needs him, and the only way to do that is to get rid of Connor, even if it means hurting him. Possibly killing him.

He goes home that night and starts cooking. Chocolate cupcakes, with thick frosting and bright sprinkles, delightfully moist and easy to share. And he spices them heavily with cinnamon, although it’s barely enough to taste. Connor won’t know. It’s the perfect delivery method, and when Crockett brings in a couple dozen to pass out to the rest of his coworkers, everyone is happy and excited and thankful. And Ethan’s face lights up at the treat, turns soft when Crockett asks him to bring one home for Connor. He trusts him. It doesn’t even cross his mind that there’s something wrong, or soon to be, anyways.

Rather, he thanks Crockett and pats his shoulder in an almost affectionate gesture, happy to eat his own and bring the other home. He even thanks Crockett, praises him for its taste. Easy, so easy, and he almost forgets as his shift continues while Ethan’s ends, and he heads home with the cupcake for Connor. It’s so simple. For a moment, he can even imagine that he’s done nothing wrong at all.

But within an hour, an ambulance comes in, a gurney with a paramedic and Ethan beside it, the body on it shaking violently. Skin flushed a deep pink. Hives. Crockett can only watch as Maggie directs them to a room and Natalie runs over.

He can hear everyone talking. How the patient is going into shock, they can’t breathe, they’re dying, and he knows that it’s Connor. He knows this is because of him. It’s strange, scary, and empowering all at once to know that this is a fruit of his labor.

Ethan winds up pushed away from the chaos, standing beside Crockett and watching with wide eyes. He doesn’t understand, he’s overwhelmed, and he came to him for help. Ethan swallows hard.

“Was there cinnamon in the cupcake?”

“A little,” Crockett says. He hopes his voice sounds alright. “Why?”

“Connor’s allergic.”

A normal person would start apologizing, or something, but all he can do is watch them push steroids into Connor’s veins and wrap an arm around Ethan’s body in an imitation of comfort. He did this. He intentionally triggered a deadly allergic reaction. 

“I…” He starts. Doesn’t finish.

Ethan shakes his head. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault, you didn’t know.”

The two of them stand there for as long as they can before Crockett gets called to a patient, and he quietly watches for the moment that Ethan eventually returns to Connor’s side.


	3. Chapter 3

Connor is still checked into the ED, on a nebulizer with Ethan holding his hand, when Crockett’s shift ends and he goes home to an empty apartment. He still can’t entirely wrap his head around what he’s just done. He tried to kill someone. He knowingly, willfully, and with premeditation tried to kill someone. That’s attempted first degree murder, he learns after a google deep dive. And it’s got a serious sentence tacked onto it, should he ever get caught.

He’s having a hard time coming to terms with what he’s done. In the past, such a thought would have never crossed his mind, let alone done something as cruel as this, and certainly not for something as simple as love which he doesn’t know if he deserves.

Although what he deserves isn’t the question; the question is what Ethan deserves, and that’s a question so easy to answer. Ethan deserves better than Connor. He deserves love and patience and care and understanding, and those are things which Crockett can give better than anyone else, so he must be doing the right thing. 

It’s the right thing.

He’s doing what’s right.

He’s not in the wrong.

He swallows down a heavy, heavy sip of bourbon that burns his throat the whole way. Crockett doesn’t mind. It’s a toast to himself, and the possibilities now facing him as he comes to terms with the fact that this is what he has to do, and begins to plan for what happens next. It seemed like Connor would make it when he left, but hopefully the hassle will be enough to drive a wedge between the two of them. And if it doesn’t, he needs to have a plan B. Something else to bring Ethan into his arms.

If he can’t separate them by choice, he’ll have to remove Connor altogether. Get him out of the city, out of the state, maybe out of life. Without him here, there’s no distraction to steal Ethan’s attention away from him. Only if the cinnamon proves to have failed. It could take a few days to work, if it does at all, and Crockett needs to be patient. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Neither was his career. Breathe, he tells himself, like Connor can’t. He has time. 

Boozed up and emotionally overwhelmed, he imagines Ethan’s hands on his body. Would they be demanding or gentle? How fast would he move, how rough would his grip be, how loud would his moans buzz against Crockett’s neck? His own hand tracing over his chest is no real substitute, but it’s something in the dark of his room. He can just barely imagine the way Ethan’s hips would feel, sharp and firm when Crockett tightens his thighs against them to keep him close. And maybe Ethan would close a hand on his throat and tighten it just enough to make him feel held. Until he’s dizzy, his mouth tastes like copper, and he thinks he might be dying.

Isn’t that what love really is, he wonders, as his clammy hand curls around his cock. It’s dying and it’s pain, and it hurts him over and over again but he still comes crawling back like it’s the most painful fix. Heroin like he hasn’t done in forever. More burning and more aggressive than his bourbon or his sazerac after a boil. Oh, it kills him slowly, the way he imagines Ethan’s chokehold would in this lonely, cold bed.

He wishes that Ethan could be here to really make him feel, but for now, he’s alone. And for that exact reason, the moment is over. He stops touching himself like he’s been burned, and throws his bourbon across the room. Broken, spilling, shattered. Booze drips. Sticky now, a stain in the morning he will never clean. He creates messes of his own, and fixes the messes of others. The one thing he will fix is the travesty of Ethan being caught with a man like Connor who is nowhere near good enough for him.

Connor is ruining Ethan’s life, ruining Crockett’s life, and he needs to go. Whatever the fuck it takes. This is what they need, and as such, he will do what it takes, even if the thought makes him at least a little nauseous

He sleeps hard that night with a mindful of plans, of ways to make this right. Connor has a history of overdose, and wouldn’t it be so easy to stage that? Leave his body cold and empty, and Ethan will have no one else to turn to. Just Crockett, who will open his door to him, accept him into loving arms the way any real lover should. He will kiss Ethan and love him until he forgets about what came before, and it will be fine.

It will be murder, he thinks, but it will be fine because he’s doing the right thing, and that’s all that matters. Ethan is the center of his universe. Crockett would die for him, kill for him, live for him. Do anything for him, anything at all.

When he returns to work bruised by his own recklessness, Connor is still in the ED, fast asleep and alone in his room. Ethan must be on shift again, now busy with other patients. Crockett takes up residence at that bedside, flicks where the IV meets skin and shocks Connor awake. So panicked as he looks around for Ethan, for someone to take care of him because he’s just so weak and this is exactly why he’s undeserving.

“You don’t deserve Ethan,” he growls. Connor’s eyes are wide. Afraid. Exactly as it should be. “You are weak, pathetic, and you are ruining his life. You should leave him before you just make things worse. Or-” he has to pause, then, overwhelmed by his own words, “Or before I make you leave him.”

Crockett leaves him alone to consider it. If this works, then he won’t have to go too far, do something that can’t be undone. He really doesn’t want to have to kill Connor, and this is his last hail mary to find another viable option. If Connor would just leave, everything will be okay. Crockett will be here for Ethan. He will show him what it really feels like to be loved. Everything will be as it should.

Just after he gets to the nurse’s station, Ethan comes to check on Connor. Almost immediately, their voices grow in volume. Angry. Arguing. Words Crockett can’t entirely make out because Connor’s mouth is still a little numb and Ethan has a habit of mumbling when he’s upset. Nonetheless, it’s exactly what Crockett needs, and he knows he’s doing the right thing. 

Ethan will be his before he knows it.


	4. Chapter 4

Ethan does not go home with Connor when he’s discharged, even though Goodwin tells him that he can. Angry, disappointed, distressed, he puts Connor into a Lyft and stalks back to the doctor’s lounge to rest his head in his hands and groan. For a moment, Crockett debates between going to him and waiting for him to come. But he’s impatient, and so he winds up taking a seat at the creaky little table and waiting for Ethan’s head to lift.

He seems so tired.

That’s in part, Crockett’s fault, but he’s doing it for Ethan’s good in the long run. He can’t let himself fall shortsighted. He offers a small smile and an open expression, giving the opportunity to open up to him and make him feel safe to speak his mind.

“I’m worried about Connor,” he admits quietly, because of course it’s still about Connor. “He thinks you tried to kill him or something, which is… you had no way of knowing he was allergic, and you’re his doctor-” Ethan shakes his head. “He’s paranoid, and the last time he got like this, he…” And then he cuts himself off. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be putting all this on you.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m here to listen.”

Crockett offers a hand, which he didn’t really expect Ethan to take without hesitation. But it happens, and he thinks he just forgot how to breathe because he’s holding Ethan’s hand. He’s wanted. He’s loved.

He rubs his thumb over Ethan’s knuckles and waits for him to say more. Instead, Ethan holds the silence. This is nice too, the being together. The peace. Crockett can almost pretend that this isn’t the first time and they often get to share small but meaningful moments of intimacy. Before they know it, they’ll be laying in bed as the sun rises and holding each other, kissing lazily before they crawl out of bed. How safe and soft it’ll be, how perfect.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Crockett asks. He hopes Ethan needs somewhere to stay for the night. A couch, or even a shared bed. “I’m here to help.”

Ethan just shakes his head, but at least he stays and keeps holding on, the smallest victory to ease the soft pain in Crockett’s chest. For nearly ten minutes, they sit like this until work calls and they’re forced to separate. However, throughout the day, Ethan keeps coming back to him and just leaning close, a comforting pressure for them both and proof that Crockett is doing this right. If he wasn’t, Ethan wouldn’t be so desperate for his touch.

He thinks about it for days afterward, the way it felt to be the person Ethan turned to for comfort and love and he realizes, he did that. It was because he showed Ethan that Connor was bad, and he was good. It sticks to him, honestly, that feeling of being wanted because of his direct action. It’s a drug. He needs to get rid of Connor more permanently, or at least keep him on the outs, because it means he gets Ethan to himself.

Things snowball. Crockett falls more in love with Ethan’s touch. He gets addicted to him, and the continued downfall of his relationship with Connor, but it’s not enough because he doesn’t truly have Ethan to himself. He needs to have him to himself, and the only thing in the way is Connor.

Within a week of Connor’s discharge, Crockett’s irritation and his anger and his sense of justice are spiraling out of control. It’s not fair. Ethan belongs to him, and him alone, and he’s going to find a way to make it a reality for the future. 

He thinks of it over a suicide patient, in a way that almost makes him sick. She was in her early twenties, a student, who slit her wrists and was just too far gone by the time the gurney rolled into his treatment room. Too much blood loss, too much pain. They lost her. And Crockett thought of Connor’s history, and how this could get rid of him. Not a real suicide, because driving him to it hasn’t worked so far, and he doesn’t have the patience to deal with it.

Crockett would have to get his hands dirty, and this is something that requires real planning. He can’t just kill him, because there will be questions and evidence and defensive wounds and just too much to deal with. No, this is something he has to think out and plan. He’ll have to get Connor out of the house, out of view, and take him somewhere quiet and safe to kill him. Then he’ll have to get rid of the body. Maybe put it in a ditch, or a river. Or cut him up and put him in a bag, not much different than an amputation at work, like during the epidemic. He’s not squeamish, he tells himself. He can do this.

Sitting at his dining room table over booze, drunk mostly on Ethan’s affection, he puts together a plan. He knows Ethan’s address, so he’ll go there with some sort of weapon. A knife, a gun. Something that he can use for leverage. He’ll make Connor write a suicide note or something. Bring him back here. Then he’ll figure out the rest, because he can’t think so far into the future right now. It’s too much. 

But he has enough of a plan to push it into motion. He needs the main weapon, and getting a gun would be too suspicious. Everyone would ask, Crockett Marcel, why do you need a gun? And it’s so loud if he were to ever fire it, and he’s not skilled with it like he is a knife. He can aim with a knife. Sitting in the wooden block just within reach is his chef’s knife, his favorite knife when he’s cooking for vegetables and meat and anything because he keeps it so sharp and well cared for. It goes through a steak like butter, and that meat is often tougher than a person. Surgery has taught him that.

He almost can’t breathe as he holds it up, tracing his fingertips over the smooth flat of the blade. His reflection, warped, stares back at him, reminding him that there is no turning back if he does this. To hurt a person, that was one thing. To kill him? To intentionally take an innocent life?

No, not innocent. Not innocent, Crockett thinks, because he is ruining Ethan’s life and keeping the both of them from experiencing the true happiness that they deserve. He’s not innocent, and it’s righteous to remove him from the equation. This is the right thing. This is what should happen, what needs to happen, and he will do it himself. 

He stands up slow and cradles the knife to his chest. Ethan’s on shift right now, for the next six hours, and Crockett’s not even on call. Of course, Connor will be at home because he doesn’t even work. Now. This is his chance.


	5. Chapter 5

Crockett takes his own car, knife sitting in the glove compartment, and realizes that he doesn’t know how he’s going to get Connor into the car without a fight. That’s where a gun could help, but again, that would draw too much attention. Fuck. But he’s come this far, and when he knocks on Ethan’s door with the hand holding the knife, he imagines what would happen if he messed up, if Ethan is home and here. That would be disastrous, to say the very least. But it’s just Connor, with messy hair and an oversized tee shirt to show for his useless days.

“Dr. Marcel,” he says, and starts to close the door.

Before he can, Crockett forces his way in and presses the knife against Connor’s chest. Too much pressure, a line of blood. Connor doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes are wide and afraid. He should be afraid. These are the consequences of taking what isn’t yours, and he will pay them for what he’s done to Ethan. But first, silence, the two of them sizing each other up and trying to figure out their next move.

Crockett is of course the first one to make it. He curls a hand around the back of Connor’s neck and holds the blade just barely against the soft skin of his throat. “I want you to write a suicide note,” he says. “A goodbye.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“Not at the moment.”

There’s a small notepad on the kitchen counter with a pen, a handful of grocery items already written. As Crockett guides Connor to it, he watches his hands shake and listens to the uneven rasp of his panicked breathing. The fear is so heady that he’s drowning in it. He likes knowing that he’s finally putting the bastard in his place for all the damage he’s done. Pen in hand. Unsteady. Ink just hesitating above the paper. 

“Write it!”

Silently, Connor puts the pen down and begins writing unsteadily. Shaky. It’s annoying, but Crockett lets him because he still has to worry about getting him home and actually killing him. It’s the longest two minutes of his life, watching Connor scribble out an end of life message and ensuring there’s nothing suspicious in it. It’s vague. Mostly o Ethan, telling him he loves him more than anything but he has to go, and not to miss him. To move on. And Crockett can’t wait for Ethan to take that advice and fall directly into his waiting arms. 

The note is finished. Connor’s staring at him with these wide eyes, so heartbreakingly blue in a way that reminds Crockett of puppies. He very nearly feels guilty for this, but he forces himself to remember who he’s dealing with and why. The knife brings up a single bead of blood when Connor swallows.

“We’re leaving,” Crockett tells him, and moves the knife to a less obvious place. Under his shirt, pressed against his back. Connor’s skin is warm to the touch, a little damp. But it does the job as he leads him outside and opens his trunk. That should keep him from causing problems on the way home. “Get in.”

With a slight whimper, Connor obeys. Crockett chooses then to pat him down for a phone, realizing the danger it could pose. Nothing. Good. Crockett slams the trunk closed and glances around to ensure there were no prying eyes before he drives home with a now bloody knife beside him. There’s a person in the trunk of his car and a bloody knife in his cup holder. The absurdity of it draws a somewhat manic laugh from his throat. He’s losing it. 

At least he has a garage he can use for cover as he drags Connor out and holds the knife to him again before making his way up to his apartment. What now? Connor seems to have the same question as he stares at Crockett in silence for a long moment.

He has zip ties in the cabinet. He got them to seal ingredient bags better, and now they’re more useful as he blindly grabs one and orders Connor to hold out his hands. There. Now he can’t fight back. Crockett drags him and the knife to the bathroom, theoretically the easiest place to clean up, and crams a washcloth in his mouth to keep him quiet. Real fear clouds Connor’s eyes now, and why does he look like a fucking puppy?

Crockett grabs his hair to steady him and brings the knife forward. Just slit his throat over the tub. He’ll bleed out in seconds, and then it’s just a matter of getting rid of the body. Problem solved. No more Connor, nothing keeping Ethan away from him, and his life will be so much better. All he has to do is press the knife in and drag. Just like every surgical incision in history. 

But then Connor is quietly crying, still staring at him, and Crockett lowers his arm. He can’t. He has to, but he can’t.

“Stop it,” he orders.

Unsurprisingly, Connor does not stop.

Crockett sets the knife down on the counter and drags Connor toward the bedroom instead. The reaction is instant. Connor starts kicking his feet, shaking his head and making these absolutely pathetically desperate sounds behind the makeshift gag. He can’t quite figure out what’s so much scarier about this than when Crockett was literally about to kill him, but it doesn’t matter as he throws Connor into the closet and shuts it firmly. The sliding door should be hard to open from inside without much mobility, but Crockett spends a solid five minutes dragging his dresser in front of the doors for good measure. That should hold him even if he makes progress on the doors. 

That done, he returns to the bathroom and rinses his knife in the sink. Red stains, pink water, until it runs clear and the white sink stares up at him. He didn’t kill Connor. He meant to, but he didn’t, and now there’s a person in his closet because he was weak. 

This is about Ethan, not him, and he needs to kill Connor at some point. Hopefully this will be enough for now, but eventually it must be permanent. From here, the faint sounds of sobbing are still audible, and he just can’t fucking deal with it. He grabs his phone from his back pocket and turns on the speakers. Loud music. Much louder than Connor, and easy to hide himself in so he doesn’t have to think. The knife gets a sterile bath of bleach and a good wash with detergent before he brings it to the kitchen in preparation for food. He thinks Ethan will like some proper gumbo, made fresh by someone who knows what they’re doing on a day that will likely be difficult for him. Crockett’s only taking care of him. 

By the time he finishes cooking, serves himself plenty before fridging the rest, and turns off the music, the crying has stopped. It’s easy to pretend that nothing is wrong when he climbs into bed for the night.


	6. Chapter 6

First thing in the morning, Crockett checks on Connor. He’s awake, with heavy bags under his eyes, and stares up at him with a full exhaustion and tear stains on his face. He must have cried through the night. But it was quiet, and didn’t matter, so Crockett just looks at him like it’ll tell him what he should do next. He has to kill him eventually. But since he’s still alive, Crockett should give him some water, right? Right. He shuts the closet door, fills a glass with water, and returns to kneel in front of him and pull him upright.

“If you scream,” he says, “you’ll regret it.”

Not that he knows what he’d do.

But Connor is quiet when his gag is removed and greedily accepts the water Crockett holds to his lips. There, that’s done. He gags him again and takes a clean pair of scrubs before hiding him away once more. Out of sight, out of mind, as he pulls his clothes on and meanders to the bathroom to finish getting ready. Will Ethan be coming to work, or still dealing with realizing that Connor is gone? He’ll need at least a little time to come to terms with it before he’s ready to come to Crockett and accept his love.

Just in case, he brings the food with him and leaves it in the doctor’s lounge fridge with a little sticky note reading “Ethan<3” and instructions on how to heat it up properly. To work, like normal, except the doctors are quiet and reverent. Will Halstead’s brother is here, talking to people. Dr. Latham from cardiology sits beside April and speaks to her softly. Ethan isn’t here. 

“What’s going on here?” he asks. 

Maggie gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Ethan’s boyfriend is missing. He left a suicide note.”

“Connor?”

He has to pretend he doesn’t know anything. No one can know he had anything to do with this. The detective catches his eye and comes over, sizing him up almost, like he knows something. He can’t know anything. There’s nothing to know.

“You’re Dr. Marcel?”

“Sure am.”

Crockett holds out a hand to shake, but it isn’t taken.

“I’m Detective Halstead. Can I ask you a couple questions about Connor Rhodes?”

Don’t show his thoughts on his face. Neutral. Relaxed. At ease. The way he feels when he’s concerned about a patient, not when the missing person with a suicide note is tied up in his closet.

“I don’t know him real well, but if you think it’ll help.”

Halstead pulls out a notebook and a pen. It’s fine. Crockett has nothing to hide, he’s just a normal surgeon. “Recently, Connor had an allergic reaction that you treated him for.”

“Oh, yeah. I uh, I baked cupcakes for everyone and-” look down, look away. Make it guilt. Hide it. “He was allergic to something in it. It was pretty bad, but he had seemed well when we sent him home.”

“I heard he was saying that you intentionally triggered his allergies.”

“Why would I do that?”

Halstead narrows his eyes. “I don’t know, why would you?”

“I wouldn’t.”

For now, that seems to be all for the questions, so Halstead reluctantly leaves him and Maggie immediately gives Crockett the intake tablet. Even with everyone upset and distracted, there are still patients to contend with as he makes his way to the treatment room. A little kid, fell off the monkey bars and broke his arm. It’ll need to be reset, put in a cast, all that fun stuff. That’s simple compared to the rest of Crockett’s life, and he spends a few moments reassuring the mother and distracting the kid while a nurse administers painkillers and waits for them to take effect. The moment they do, Crockett resets the bone. That crack. He never gets used to the way bones sound. But the child, albeit teary, is better and headed up to ortho now.

Crockett’s in the clear, kind of, and as he wades through his shift, he watches the others who’ve been around longer struggle through their perception of what happened to Connor. Before he became a jobless leech, he had been the trauma surgeon in Crockett’s place, and so many of the staff had, to put it simply, adored him. It doesn’t make sense, but they had.

On his way home, he gets a call from Ethan.

“I heard what happened,” he says into the speaker. “Are you okay?”

“Can I come over?”

It’s working. Ethan will be here. “Of course, sugar. I’ll fix some dinner and a couple cocktails. I know this must be hard on you.”

In just two hours, there will be a guest at his apartment. The most important to ever step foot on the premises, and Crockett remembers quite suddenly that the supposedly dead Connor is lying in his closet, very much alive because he didn’t have to balls to kill him last night like he should have. Such an idiot. Weak. He slams his head against the steering wheel hard when he parks his car, like it’ll jolt his brain into figuring out what to do about this. How can he fix this? Ethan will be here soon.

Connor’s crying again in the closet. Shaking. Sobbing. And Crockett wants to kill him, but it’s hard when he’s acting so pathetic and he knows that this is the cause of pain for Ethan. It’s for the best, but it’s still hurting him. 

“You’re making Ethan upset,” Crockett tells him, and knows he can’t kill him now. It’ll be too messy, and Ethan will be here too soon. “He’s coming over because of it, and you need to be quiet. Okay? Fucking quiet, or I’ll kill you. Do you understand that?”

Connor nods. 

“Good. He’ll be here soon.”

Close the closet. Take a deep breath. Go out into the kitchen and cook something new, because he absolutely won’t be serving Ethan leftovers at such a crucial junction in their passage to more than just two people on opposite ends of the ED, pining and thinking and waiting. No, he needs to make something new, and at a time when Ethan needs comfort, the solution is easy. The comfort food to end all comfort food. Hush puppies. Sure, they’re technically not a meal, but they’ll make Ethan feel as loved and safe as he is, and Crockett can whip them up in enough time for them to be steaming hot, piled high beside a family recipe little dip to cut through the dryness as they start to cool when there’s a solid, yet reluctant knock on his door. 

He wipes his hands on his apron before turning the knob and welcoming Ethan in. He’s as beautiful as ever, even looking so exhausted and hurt. Poor thing. Crockett opens his arms, immediately getting rewarded with the weight of Ethan’s body against his chest. He fits so perfectly against him.

“Have a seat,” he says softly when they pull apart. “I made hush puppies. Bourbon good for you?”

“Bourbon sounds perfect.”

Crockett has to resist the urge to kiss his forehead on his way by. Everything’s perfect for the slightest moment, but then, he hears. A sound. A cry, muffled but loud enough to be audible and desperate to get attention. Connor isn’t being quiet. And Ethan stands up, concerned. Looks at Crockett. Looks toward the hallway where the noise comes from. Looks at the door. Ethan’s stronger than he is, but he’s not faster, and Crockett grabs the heavy bottle of bourbon to hit him in the head with. Immediately it shatters, but the sound echoes of heavy glass to a firm skull, and the rain of liquor soaks through Ethan’s clothes. He’s on the floor right away. It won’t be long until he wakes up, so Crockett drags him to the bedroom and his trusty zip ties secure wrists, ankles to the bedposts. And a gag, he needs a gag. Better than Connor’s, but not uncomfortable. Fuck. He didn’t mean to hurt Ethan, he just panicked, because Connor fucked up and now he can’t breathe but at least Ethan isn’t going anywhere, can’t tell anyone. 

He takes a deep breath as he puts cloth in Ethan’s mouth, just like Connor, but secures it with a layer of tape. He’ll figure it out.

That taken care of, he moves the dresser and opens the closet door, where Connor still lays. Still crying. Now still, as he stares up at Crockett.

“I told you to be quiet.”


	7. Chapter 7

Crockett grabs Connor and pulls him out of the closet, ignoring the way he thrashes and kicks and screams, trying to get some leverage, some attention, to escape the fate he has brought upon himself twice. Not only did he start this, but he ruined any progress Crockett had made. He ruined everything again. 

He’s sobbing and struggling to communicate around his gag when Crockett starts filling up the bathtub, literally standing on Connor’s chest to keep him still. When he shifts too much, he feels the crack of bones. It doesn’t matter. There won’t be much pain after this. 

With the tub half-full, he shuts off the water and gets into the proper position. It’ll take more time, but it’ll be easier for him than watching the blood. Pinning Connor’s legs with his own, one hand holding onto the zip ties on his wrists and the other grabbing him by the neck to push him down. Survival instincts are strong, Connor is strong, but Crockett has the upper hand as he holds Connor’s face under the water. Bubbles. Struggling. Water all over the walls, the floor, Crockett. But eventually, the movement stops, and the bubbles don’t come up anymore. He hesitantly takes Connor’s pulse, afraid of it being a trick. It’s there, but weak. He hasn’t finished drowning. How long does that take?

His answer comes when he can’t feel the pulse anymore only a handful of seconds later.

Slowly, he backs away. He just killed Connor. Sure, he’s been thinking about it and wanting to kill him, but having actually done it is completely different and downright terrifying. He really killed him. Connor Rhodes is dead in his bathroom, drowned and soon to stiffen up. What has he done?

In the other room, the headboard thuds against the wall. Ethan is awake. Crockett looks at his reflection, throws up in the sink, and unsteadily makes his way back to the bedroom to see Ethan. Watch him struggle with his bonds before meeting Crockett’s eyes. He stills, stares, waits. 

“I panicked,” Crockett says.

There’s still blood and bourbon dripping down Ethan’s temple, and on a logical level he knows that with a head injury like that, having knocked him unconscious, he should be in a hospital. That means questions, means arrest, means guilt. No hospital. But Crockett is still a doctor, he reminds himself, and approaches slowly to take a good look. There’s only a littering of small cuts from broken glass, not too much of a gash spilling blood. He’ll have a really bad bruise, though, and there’s no telling what’s inside his skull.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. I just wanted you to see that I’m right for you, but Connor-”

At the mention of his name, Ethan perks up. 

“He was supposed to be quiet. Now he’s always going to be quiet, sugar, and now that he’s gone, you and I can be together.”

He cups Ethan’s jaw like he’s always wanted to and leans in close to kiss his cheek. Ethan still doesn’t move, but his jaw sets when Crockett decides to get a closer look at his head injury. He’ll need to get tweezers to pull out the shards of glass. Nothing looks to need sutures, and some ice will be good for the swelling. He thinks he has painkillers in the medicine cabinet, too, but he also doesn’t want to return to the bathroom, the body in it. 

“I’ll be right back, I need to get stuff to clean this up.”

Don’t look at the tub. Don’t even glance at it, he tells himself, as he goes for his first aid kit under the sink. Don’t look. Not at the pale foot that’s in his way when he tries to get to the red box. Don’t look. Don’t look, even in the mirror when he gets the painkillers and a glass of water.

When he comes back to the bedroom, Ethan suddenly freezes. He had been struggling with the ties again, and Crockett would let him out if he was certain that he wouldn’t leave. But he doesn’t know for sure yet, so he has to leave him like this for now. Just until Ethan realizes that Crockett loves him.

Ethan flinches when Crockett starts digging out glass, but he remains still for the most part. A good patient from a good doctor, even when the antiseptic makes him let out a small sound of pain. 

“Shh, it’s okay.”

And then come the bandages, with which he’s as careful as he can manage to avoid bringing Ethan anymore pain than he already has. And afterward, he looks between Ethan and the painkillers in his hand. He wants to give them to him, but he’s afraid to remove the gag. He has to remember that Ethan is not only stronger than him, but military trained, and if he wants to leave, it’ll be hard to stop him once he has momentum.

“Can I trust you to be good for me to give you painkillers?”

Slowly, Ethan nods.

Crockett peels off the tape and removes the cloth before reaching hesitantly to Ethan’s mouth. He’s afraid he’ll bite him. But he keeps a little space between his fingertips and his mouth when he drops the painkillers in, and cups the back of Ethan’s neck to support him as he helps wash it down with the tap water. Ethan is much more well behaved than Connor. It’s because deep down, he understands that this is all because Crockett loves him, and he’s just trying to take care of him and improve his life. Not like Connor.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells him, and makes room for himself beside Ethan on the bed to rest his cheek against his warm chest. He can hear his heart. It’s fast, heavy thudding, panicked. But it could always be the kind of nervousness that comes from new things like this. He had been nervous when he first really began to understand how much he needs him, and still is now with the worry that Ethan could leave him. Would leave him.

He’ll have to go back into work tomorrow, and people will be asking questions, but that’s something to worry about later, because for now, he’s free to fall asleep with Ethan, safe and sound.


	8. Chapter 8

What wakes Crockett up is the snap of wood. He bolts upright to see that Ethan has managed to break one of the bedposts, freeing an arm, and to be quite honest, he panics. Ethan is stronger than him. Ethan could hurt him. Ethan could escape.

There’s a moment where their eyes meet, each knowing that the other has power lurking beneath the surface. And then Ethan starts struggling to free his other arm, and Crockett picks up the heavy modernist lamp from his bedside. The sound this makes is much worse than the wood breaking. A shattering crack, accompanied by a muffled scream from Ethan’s mouth as his arm drops, useless, to the mattress. His arm looks gross, honestly, and the surgeon in Crockett wants to carve him open and fix it, but a more logical part knows better. He really shouldn’t have hurt him in the first place, but Ethan was going to leave him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Ethan looks at him. 

He gets up for another zip tie, and hesitantly leaves Ethan alone for the briefest of seconds. Why does he keep hurting him? He doesn’t mean to hurt him, but he can’t stop because he’s afraid of what happens if he loses the only chance he has. When he comes back, Ethan is still unmoving, although he winces when Crockett gingerly picks up his bad arm to restrain it again, this time to one of the headboard slats instead of the broken poster. Maybe this will keep him from trying to leave again. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I really don’t like to hurt you.”

It’s late enough in the morning that he has to get ready to go to work, but he can’t imagine leaving Ethan now and facing all the questions and responsibility that the ED will bring. He just wants to lay here, peaceful with Ethan, and love him as he should. He wraps his arms around him and kisses his neck before trying to regain some of the sleep he’s lost lately. It would be better if Ethan held him in return.

He knows deep down that this won’t last, can’t last, but it’s so much easier to just pretend for as long as he can while the world moves around them. But then Ethan starts talking through the gag, and its hard to understand so Crockett reaches up to help remove it.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

Connor’s body is in there. But Crockett can’t just ignore that, so he stands up and walks to the bathroom to try and hide him. Drain the bathtub, first of all. He grabs Connor’s legs to push him entirely into the tub, and the skin is waxy and cold, stiff, like a doll rather than a former human body. The movement reveals Connor’s face. His eyes are open. Clouded over, but still staring up accusingly at Crockett for too long before he draws the curtains shut and washes his hands. 

Ethan, now.

He has to cut all the zipties, which is scary in its own right, but Ethan just slowly allows himself to be led to the bathroom, holding his injured arm close to his body protectively. He’s not leaving. Maybe Crockett can loosen up in general; he won’t have to replace the gag, and maybe just secure one of Ethan’s limbs to the bed to give him more freedom but make sure he’s not going to run away. Maybe he has a pair of handcuffs in the trunk at the foot of his bed from old nights with one-time lovers.

When Crockett follows Ethan through the door, there’s a moment of a flat, vaguely disgusted expression. “I’d prefer if you didn’t watch.”

Leaving him alone, unrestrained, in the same room as Connor is frightening, but Crockett owes him this dignity, so he nods and shuts the door between them before leaning against the wall in wait. It’s weird and kind of gross, listening to Ethan relieve himself and wash his hands, but it’s how he makes sure that everything’s alright before the door opens back up and Ethan walks along back to the bedroom and lays on the mattress. He’s learning. He’s understanding. 

Crockett spends a long moment struggling to find the cuffs, their interiors rimmed with padding. It should be less harsh than the zip ties, which have left red lines of irritation on Ethan’s skin. He’s gentle, putting one around Ethan’s good wrist and attaching the other cuff to the bed. Restrained, but free. Able to hold. Crockett kisses his temple, his cheek. Pecks his lips. Ethan doesn’t respond at all, positively or negatively. But he’s here, and when Crockett clings to him, he stays. He rests. He sleeps.

This time he wakes up late in the day to loud knocking at his front door.

Visitors. He doesn’t want visitors, not with the state his apartment is in right now. Connor’s body, glass all over the living room floor, Ethan’s head wound and broken arm. He doesn’t answer, in hopes that whoever it is will think that no one is home. 

But Ethan. Ethan, who had been so good, is now straining against his cuffs and yelling for help. He takes advantage of the trust Crockett gave him. Before Crockett can silence him, the front door splinters off its hinges and there are demands. Police. They’re here for him.

“Help!” Ethan yells again, and Crockett backhands him.

Quiet, but not for long. He’s running out of time. They’re going to take Ethan from him. He can’t let them take him. What does he have in the room, what can he use to protect them? There’s still a large piece of bloody broken glass on the nightstand that he pulled out of Ethan’s temple. Take that, even though it cuts into his palm and he’s just so fucking scared because they’re going to take Ethan away and he thinks he’s forgotten who he is without him. He can’t.

Crockett presses the very edge against Ethan’s throat. Not too hard, he doesn’t want to hurt him. He just wants everyone else to go away. Leave him the fuck alone. Leave them both alone. They don’t need this interruption into a little sanctuary Crockett built in here.

But his bedroom door opens to the Halstead detective in a bulletproof vest and a couple others beside him, behind him. Their guns are up, but they all freeze when they take in the extent of the situation waiting in front of them here.

“Go away,” Crockett pleads. 

Halstead lowers his gun, raises his hands palms out. “We can’t do that, Dr. Marcel. You have to put down the weapon, okay?”

“Leave us alone.”

One of the detectives behind him glances to the side and backs away. They must have looked at the bathroom. Found Connor. Everything is suddenly falling apart and he doesn’t know where to go from here. Is there anywhere to go from here? He’s overwhelmed and he’s scared and he doesn’t want to lose Ethan after everything he’s done for him.

“Get out!”

Halstead steps closer instead. 

“You don’t have to do this. It’s over. Just put the glass down, okay? It looks like Ethan really needs a doctor, and I know you don’t want anything bad to happen to him. You don’t want to kill him.”

“How do you know that?”

There’s a hesitant smile on his face now, a drop of understanding and support. “You love him. You don’t want anything bad to happen to him, so just put down the glass and we can all walk away from this. Dr. Marcel, I know you don’t want to hurt him.”

He doesn’t want to hurt Ethan. He hates hurting him. He just loves him. He loves him, loves him more than anything, and Halstead is now at the foot of the bed, his badge gleaming like a knife. There’s a small bead of blood on Ethan’s throat. He’s so silent. No more yelling for help. As much as Crockett loves him, for the briefest moment he’s angry.

But he doesn’t want him dead. 

Slowly, Crockett lowers the glass, and in an instant he’s dragged away from Ethan, cuffed, hauled out of his own apartment where an ambulance is already waiting, for Ethan and not him. His ride is the back of a police car.

He is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @princessbekker


End file.
